The Light Amidst the Darkness
by Mage of the Heart
Summary: In the midst of the battle, clutched in the cold, inhumane arms of Lucius Malfoy, Hermione is thrown back into the past, and all she has ever thought about the bitter, unfeeling Death Eater is cast asunder as she begins to fall hopelessly in love. M. R
1. Twenty Two Years Hence

**I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters**

**Ok, so I've been reading rather a lot of Lucius/Hermione recently... and although this was going to be a one-shot, I haven't even touched the surface yet, so it will probably be about a five/six chapter fic. Let me know what you think!**

**---**

In the heat of battle, there is nothing like looking into the eyes of someone you have loved for twenty two long years, only to find them burning with hatred and fear as they look back at you. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for this moment, and as he looked at her caramel eyes, fixated on his with such revulsion, he could practically feel the violent rise of bile in the back of his throat.

"What are you waiting for Lucius?" The cold piercing voice sent shivers down his spine and his wand shook uncontrollably in his hands as it sounded in his head. "Bring her to me. Let us make an example of the filthy Mudblood." He dared not look away from her, not wanting to see anything else, not wanting to weaken his minds defences by allowing the image of his tormentor to flood before his eyes.

"Come on father!" A voice sounded, and he knew it only too well. It was the voice that he had listened to for many years, one that he had tutored in the art of language. His voice was panicked, angry, and yet tinted with concern. "He'll kill us if you don't bring the fucking Mudblood to him! Just do what he says!"

Lucius Malfoy's head snapped round. The platinum coloured hair on the young man's head was identical in colour to that which draped around his own face, and there was no denying their relation were you to look at them. However, in that moment, hearing those words slip from the lips of his own son, he had never wanted anything more than to hit him, to throttle an apology out of the pathetic weed and make him understand...

"Go to him, Draco," he ground out, stepping forward and wrapping a hand around the young woman's wrist, pulling her roughly towards him. "Tell him that his orders will be carried out in due course. I shall be there as soon as I have dealt with her."

The boys grey eyes flashed, but he had long since learnt not to anger his father, and turned heel and ran up the hill, through the debris of scattered bodies, discarded masks and broken trees, towards the magnificent castle that had become a fortress for the damned.

Lucius looked down at the shaking girl held firmly against his chest, the mask of bitterness and angry resentment falling as he locked eyes on her. The hair was the same as it always had been, slightly unruly, golden brown curls cascading around her face. She had a cut on her left cheek, and her nose was bloodied. The wand she had carried for seven long years had been torn from her grasp and now resided in Draco's pocket, rendering her useless against the towering, horrifying figure of a man who had tormented her mercilessly from the moment they had met five years ago in Flourish and Blotts. He looked at her injuries, taking in the gentle trickle of blood that led to her neck, staining the collar of a slightly large shirt that was unbuttoned and untucked beneath a 1990 NYPD jumper. He looked at the tears on her slim fitting jeans, the graze beneath a rip at her left thigh, a slight stain of red just below the knee, and he pulled her against him harder, enveloping the girl who, after some seconds stood utterly still, now struggled, crying out against the enclosure of such forsaken arms. Her pleas echoed through the night, and he knew it was necessary, knew they had to think he was hurting her, but hot tears spilled down his cheeks as he held her struggling form against the fabric of his robes, lips close to her ear, breath on her skin as her sweet scent of vanilla wafted into his nostrils so familiarly, corroded slightly by the reek of fire smoke, and the tang of blood which he had long since become accustomed to. "You have to remember me." He whispered.

Her screams were louder, her body more restless than ever as she attempted to beat her fists against the chest to which she was so painfully clasped.

"Hermione," he said softly, voice choked, and though he wasn't sure she heard him, didn't know if she had blocked him out or even registered that he was speaking at all, he went on. "Remember me! I can't do this without you... light the darkness Hermione... you have to light it up!"

And at his words, a tree exploded nearby, illuminating the cold black night with sparks of fire. The force of the blast knocked the wind out of Lucius, but even as he gasped for air, he felt her struggling body go limp in his arms, and looked down to find her eyes closed and her breath shallow.

-----

She was terrified as she opened her eyes, body shuddering at the thought of what he might be going to do, or what he might already have done. The silence scared her more than tortured screams, and the crumpled position of her body made her feel utterly abused.

With one long breath, she briefly opened her eyes, looking around her and letting out a small gasp of surprise. She was in Hogwarts, of that she was almost certain, and yet it was tidy untouched by the effects of war. She couldn't understand. It was the fourth floor corridor, and she had seen for herself earlier that evening that the suits of armour that had stood, as they were now, so sedate and ornamental, had come to life and joined their fight against Voldemort and his followers. She could have sworn too that the windows before her had fallen victim to a blast of light that had shaken half the school, blowing a hole in the wall, and yet, now there was no sign of damage whatsoever. Even more odd was the fact that sunshine leaked through the window, and though she knew she had passed out she could not imagine how so much time had passed, or how she could possibly have survived....

And suddenly, she realized that she must be dead, in heaven perhaps, and that at any moment all those wizards and witches who had lost their lives in the war would pour out of the doors to welcome her.... and yet they didn't. Standing up, she wondered if she was the only person in the world who had been sad enough to call Hogwarts her 'heaven'. She wondered if somehow, through all of her bookish ways and constant worrying about grades, she had overlooked the fact that actually, this was not heaven when without those she cared about... Maybe she could change it... maybe it was a test... Purgatory, perhaps? She gulped, and was just about to call out when she heard footsteps pounding down the nearby staircase.

She would have gasped, but she was too shocked to inhale any air whatsoever. A boy her own age was racing towards her, an ecstatic grin on his face as he sprinted down the few hundred metres corridor, short, platinum hair glinting slightly in the sunlight as he ran. She could have sworn she knew him, for there were so few people with that white a colour of hair, and yet the face was too sharp for it to be Draco Malfoy, and she had no time to concentrate fully, for he had nearly reached her, and was opening his mouth to yell "RUN!"

She wouldn't have done so – she didn't know him, there seemed nothing amiss, and she really didn't want to leave the abandoned safety of the corridor in the middle of a battle- but then a loud 'bang resonated through the corridor, following by flames flying down the stairs from the fifth floor banister. Laughing his delight as he looked back over his shoulder, the boy continued to run, and Hermione, deciding that perhaps running might work to her advantage, joined him, fast on his heels as he skidded around the corner, skipped the miniature staircase and darted into a hidden alcove. She stopped when he hid, unsure where to go, but a hand darted out, pulling her into the small, tight fight of the alcove, just as flames tore down the rest of the corridor, eye-wateringly hot, and then disappeared from view apparently leaving no harm whatsoever in its path. The boy against whom she found herself clutched was laughing weakly, chest rising and falling beneath her cheek, the softness of his laugh comforting to her as she clasped unwittingly onto his arms, fear clutching at her heart. It took several moments for the boy to stop chuckling, and he looked down at her with a quirked eyebrow, the shadow of the alcove too much to make out any defining features except the aristocratic jaw line.

"And then there were five!" He said softly, as though expecting her to wholly understand his meaning. Timidly, she asked, "five what?" Then wished she hadn't.

His darker eyebrows crinkled against the white alabaster of his skin, and he pulled her gently out of the alcove, looking up and down the corridor before releasing her. His head was turned briefly, but when he looked back at her, it was her turn to frown. He had the same facial contours as someone else, though she could not place who, for something seemed out of place and wrong.

"Do I know you?" She asked, though in hindsight she realised the perhaps she had made a mistake; asking someone's identity in the middle of a war was tantamount to saying "if you're the enemy come get me!"

He looked at her, eyes raking over her body and attire, and she couldn't help but feel that she was being scrutinized, and an involuntary shudder passed over her. "No," he said thoughtfully. "No I don't think so... I certainly don't know you by any means." With another frown he said, "Ninety-ninety? Aren't you a little... ahead of your time?"

She looked down in confusion as his eyes fell to her chest, then blinked. "Hardly... its ninety-ninety..."

"In fourteen years," he interrupted with a drawl of sarcasm. She blinked, certain that she had heard that same drawl somewhere else, but also completely and utterly shocked with the revelation now dawning on her.

Before she could make the connection as to who he was, he held a hand out. She looked at it. It was well crafted, in as much as a hand could be. It looked delicate and yet manly all at once, and the paleness of his skin contrasted with the black colour of his –now she thought about it- rather tight fitting sweater.

"You shake it," he supplied, with a hint of amusement. When she didn't move, but continued instead just to look at him, he sighed and moved forward, gripping her wrist gently with his left hand and lifting it so that it was level with his right. With a smirk at her blatant shock, he wrapped his fingers gently around her palm, then exaggeratedly lifted the hand up, lowering it, then repeating it once more. She looked at him blankly, apparently shocked, before he dropped the hand and looked at her with a grin etched on his thin, elegantly shaped lips. "Now that we've managed the simple task of handshaking – though I openly admit that we may have slightly passed that stage given I had to manhandle your body in order to succeed with it – my names Lucius."

Her heart stopped, her breathing rate increased, and she thought she was going to hyperventilate. With a gasp, she closed her eyes and counted to ten. It was impossible. There was no way this was happening. It was a bad dream; nightmare, really, given that her dreams would have a positive message, and there was no way that this could end well. She looked at him, sure that she was sweating, a cold sweat she couldn't control, making her body shake and shudder repeatedly.

He looked worried. "Are you alright?" He asked, his voice actually showing concern, which scared her even more.

"Fine... I'm fine... I've got to go. I've got to..." she looked around in horror, hoping for a hole to appear so that she could simply throw herself into it.

"You've got to what?" He asked, crossing his arms and leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed as his eyes looked her over once again.

The first thing he noticed was the fact her hair was full of dust, leaves and mud, making it look slightly grey in colour for some parts, whilst others shone caramel brown and looked tantalizing as her hair fell in slightly frizzy curls. Then there was the dried blood on her nose and cheek, as though she'd just run away from a fight in which, he assumed, the other girl had come off looking much less presentable. There were rips in the muggle clothing she wore, the jeans ripped at the thigh and knee, both slightly grazed. The jumper was rather loose but slim-fitting, the collar of a mans shirt poking out from the collar, stained slightly with blood, presumably from the trickle which ran down her neck. What had she been up to? He met her eyes and quirked an eyebrow. "Well? Any answer at all here, I'm simply _dying_ to hear it."

His sarcastic drawl had no effect on her at all. She was too fixated on the horrifying truth that the man who had clasped her against him as she struggled for dear life, fully intent on taking her to a man who would kill her and all those whom she loved, was now stood before her as a late-teenage boy, looking overly casual, completely at ease, and as though he had nothing to hide.

And now she understood why she hadn't recognized him instantly; naturally, his hair was shorter and left some difficulty in distinguishing the difference, but there was also the fact that the grey eyes which were so cold and unfeeling in – she gulped at the thought- twenty-two years time were full of laughter, happiness and even a small amount of flirtation, which made all the difference to the set of his face. His lips were no longer drawn into the miserable straight line that made his genuinely attractive demeanour appear threatening and unnerving.

"You don't talk much, do you?" Lucius sighed, pushing himself off the wall and tapping his toe impatiently.

"I've... I..."

"You've what?" He asked teasingly, the grin on his face wide enough to show perfectly straight teeth that seemed to literally glitter. Hermione found herself actually catching her breath.

"I've got to go and see..." she searched for inspiration, anything at all, then let a manic grin spread on her face as a light bulb seemed to go off in her head, "DUMBLEDORE! I have to see Dumbledore!"

Lucius looked at her in bemusement, "Dumbledore's away on official business at the ministry. Has been for a week. Don't you live here? Have you not noticed how he's not been at meals?"

Hermione blinked, then opened her mouth inconclusively several times before saying again, "I haven't been here before..."

He looked her over again, then shrugged. "I didn't think I'd seen you before... you know, McGonagall's here... she might be able to help. But if I take you to her, you'll owe me big time, because I just had to lie to her in order to get out of a weeks detention cleaning gum off desks without magic."

Hermione couldn't help but smile at the familiarity of McGonagall's punishments, having endured many years listening to Ron and Harry making complaint after complaint, and occasionally having to join them.

"Do I take it that idea appeases to you? Or shall I continue to stand here and watch you grin to yourself like a banshee with premature dementia?"

Hermione blinked. "I... I think I'll be able to find my way by myself... thank you."

He laughed. "You've never been here before, remember?" He rolled his eyes as she looked speechless, then sighed. "Look, McGonagall's all over the place the last few weeks, she's in charge of everything, and right now the only place you'll find her is the last place you'd want to go alone, alright? So why don't you just come along like a good girl and try not to trip over your jaw at my devastating good looks?"

She felt familiar anger drawing up in her stomach at his utter arrogance, and reasoned that this man was really no different to the man in twenty-two years time, and though it should have terrified her, it was more comforting to know that she needn't feel guilty for not liking him. "Really, I think I'll manage alone," she said coldly, crossing her arms and turning on her heels to head up the stairs they had just leapt down, towards McGonagall's office.

She practically heard the smirk on his face as she stepped on the first step, and snapped back round to see him still standing patiently, arms crossed and toe tapping lightly, facing the place that she had just stood as though expecting her to rematerialize.

"You won't find her that way." He turned around and grinned at her. "And it really would be easier for all parties if you just allowed me to accompany you, saving us all from having to pick your body off the floor with a spachelor when you walk off the end of a staircase."

She was infuriated. Not because he was making her out to be a complete idiot, but because he was acting as though she should _want_ to go with him, and as far as she was aware there was no reason for him to believe so, aside from the fact that she had been pressed rather questioningly against him, though she reasoned that that was as a result of his own foolish actions.

"Look, I don't need to be mollycoddled and lead around the castle like a two year old! I managed to find my way up here didn't I?" It was a rhetorical question, and she instantly hoped he took it as such, but instead he looked at her inquisitively.

"How did you manage that, by the way? Since you haven't yet seen McGonagall, and Dumbledore isn't here, how could you possibly have gotten into the grounds?" His eyes narrowed, and suddenly the Death Eater he was to become was ever so briefly recognizable. She shuddered in fear, closing her eyes and counting to five before opening them again. He hadn't looked away.

"I... I had... someone let me in."

He looked at her as though asking for more, but apparently he realised it was not going to further his knowledge and dropped the issue. "Either way," he said, slightly mistrusting in his tone, "I'd better take you to McGonagall, or someone's going to report you as an intruder and we'll all be in for a party." He approached her and offered a hand for her to take. She looked at it, looked at his face, then rudely pushed it away. He looked shocked, but didn't question it further, indicating that Hermione should go in front of him. She looked at him nervously, then decided that, at this moment in time, he could have no idea of who she was, and had no reason to harm her. She stepped forward, keeping a respectable distance between them and moving away whenever he edged slightly closer. He sighed at her elbow, then led her on the familiar path through the school, leading her as though he had lived there his whole life, so fast that she was barely able to take in her surroundings. She noted briefly a few differences from the building in her own time; certain paintings were not yet there, while others were completely unknown to her and she wished she had time to look at the plaques beneath them in order to see why they might have been removed in her own time. Oddly, there was nobody else in sight, and she wondered why that might have been, but there was little

She supposed it should not have surprised her that he lead her to the dungeons, though it took her a few moments to notice that she was not actually taking the corridor to the potions classrooms, but another corridor she had never before ventured down. He stopped abruptly at an iron door, so fast that she walked right into his shoulder, setting her recently clotted nose bleeding again so that she swore loudly, her voice echoing down the murky corridor. He sent a scathing look her way, which actually shocked her, given that he hadn't been overly cruel or scary in his recent addresses of her. "You have the tact of a blast-ended skrewt," he hissed. "Do you want everyone in the castle to know there's a complete stranger here? Have you any idea how much they'll panic when they realize you've managed to get in without any explanation?"

"I have an explanation; I just choose not to share it with you!" She hissed, surprised inwardly that she had the guts to stand up to the legendary dark figure of Lucius Malfoy, whether seventeen or not.

"Well then you're cutting off your bloodied nose to spite your equally bloody face, because nobody will believe that you are here for anything other than sabotage while you keep your cards so close to your chest." He knocked harshly on the iron door, and the loud thuds resonated through the room, sending chills down her spine. The door creaked open, and Hermione nearly squeaked at the sight of Minerva McGonagall, twenty-two years younger, prettier and less intimidating, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the shrill voice that had served seven years of teaching transfiguration fell on all too welcoming ears.

"Mister Malfoy, I told you explicitly not to disturb me unless you had adequate reason and unless..." her eyes fell on Hermione, face bloodied and clothes torn, and she instantly quieted, stepping out of the room quickly. "Explain yourself Mister Malfoy! I do not recall authorising a visitation!"

Lucius rolled his eyes arrogantly, "as if I'd have invited her Professor! I found her in the corridor and she wanted to see Dumbledore, and since he wasn't here, she asked for you. I was only being _helpful _which I believe is in my job description as Head Boy." The typical Malfoy sneer was plastered across his face as he spoke, but she found it surprising that it looked rather comical in this situation, since the moment McGonagall turned her eyes on him, he shied away from her. She snorted. Like father like son. He was acting like Draco's clone.

"You may leave, Mister Malfoy, thank you. Perhaps you will head to the kitchens and have them send up sandwiches and juice for our guest?" It was not a request, and he clearly knew not to take it as such, but the annoyance on his face was plainly evident as he turned on his heel and headed gracefully down the corridor.

"Perhaps we, Miss, should continue our conversation behind closed doors." She pointed graciously to the door and held it open for Hermione to enter. She bit her lip and then walked in, feeling the chill of the room as she did so. McGonagall indicated for her to take a seat in an uncomfortable looking wicker chair, which she did reluctantly, seating herself nervously.

"I apologise for the setting; my job is very scattered at the moment, and I haven't had the time to make all of my inhabited rooms as comfortable as I would have liked. Now please, explain your situation. This was clearly not a planned visit, judging by your attire?"

Hermione nodded, then looked at the floor. "I don't really know how I got here... I don't understand it all Professor."

"May I ask, how do you know Albus and I? I have no recollection of our meeting, and though my memory isn't what it once was, I have not yet reached the point of dementia. Please, continue." Her hand waved wearily, as though she was stressed, and Hermione felt guilty at the very thought of leaving her problems impressing on McGonagall's mind.

"I really don't know if I can tell you Professor, with no disrespect meant but I... I don't quite know what effect that might have on... the future." She brought a hand to her lips and chewed nervously on a fingernail, deliberately looking away from the woman seated across from her.

"You speak in riddles, my dear, and I haven't the energy to decipher it. Tell me your name, and perhaps we shall go from there." Looking up, Hermione saw that she had draped a hand across her forehead, and felt an upheaval of sympathy for the older woman.

"Hermione Granger," she said softly.

"And where do you come from?"

"Here," Hermione answered honestly, "only not from now... I'm... not at home."

McGonagall nodded tiredly. "And I suppose that the jumper you are wearing has something to do with that? I don't think I've seen anything of the sort, even in the muggle world, and I doubt it would have been emblazoned with a year fourteen years in the future without good reason." Her eyes seem to twinkle ever so slightly as she looked at her, and Hermione nodded glumly.

"I honestly can't explain it Professor; one minute I was..." she pondered, then decided not to tell her the whole truth; it could upset the course of everything in the wizarding world, and though it might work out in their favour, she had no idea who might be harmed in doing so, "busy. And then I fainted, and woke up to find Lucius Malfoy running down the corridor towards me and had no idea what happened." She heard the panic in her own voice, but couldn't control it, nor did she try.

McGonagall appeared lost for words, and she reached for parchment and quill after only a moment's hesitation. "I shall write to Albus immediately; time is not a matter with which I would consider myself well learned, and I think Albus may well be better educated to explain the situation to you... for now, you should rest Miss Granger; I shall see to it that you have a room prepared.

-----

She felt utterly terrified when a knock sounded on her door; the room she was in was unfamiliar enough as it was, and she wasn't yet sure that she could face visitors. Nervously, vaguely thinking it might be Dumbledore, she rose and opened the door, cracking it open only slightly to see the blindingly white blonde hair of Lucius Malfoy. She nearly shut the door again, hoping he hadn't seen her, but he had, and his hand shot out to hold the door open, apparently anticipating her reaction.

"I came to apologize," he said, his voice quiet, as though afraid someone might walk past. She frowned at that; the first shock was of course that Malfoy's were not especially renowned for making apologies- the second was that as far as she was aware, he had done nothing worth apologizing for, given some of the atrocities he was destined to commit. "I was completely insensitive earlier; I had no right to pry into your private business... I'm sure you have... reasons, for not disclosing your story in its entirety... I just... wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings."

He looked humbled, and Hermione was intrigued by the whole plethora of differences between this Lucius and the one she knew he would grow to be, and she couldn't help asking, simply for assurance, "who are you?"

And he smiled at her, a slight chuckle rising in his throat. "I told you.. Lucius Malfoy..." she looked blank, and he grinned, eyes dancing, "ladies man; mans man; man about town..." he shrugged. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of me, I'm something of a legend, even if I do say so myself."

She smiled nervously, "thank you." She went to shut the door, but he held it open once more.

"Wait," he said, almost desperately. "You know my name.... won't you grant me yours?"

Nerves bubbling in her stomach, unsure whether this was a good idea of not, she whispered, "my names Hermione Granger." Nothing else. She simply left her name hanging in the air, her head turned to the side, eyes on the floor.

He nodded, though she didn't see it. "Thank you... goodnight Miss Granger."

-----

Dumbledore returned the next day, and Hermione listened to him raptly, praying that he could help her, send her home, make everything better.

For once, Albus Wilfric Brian Dumbledore could do nothing. Since there was no determining factor which had sent her, there was no determining factor to send her back. As a matter of safety, he decided that she should attend the school as a student, and she found herself looking at a familiar tattered hat as she sat in the office, hands visibly shaking as Albus' blue eyes watched her sadly. She didn't look at him. Instead, she placed it on her head, listening to the familiar voice in her ear.

"You've changed." Was all it said primarily, and she felt her shock at that statement.

"You remember me?" She thought back, confused.

"I am not a mortal being, Miss Granger- I remember things from years in the future, things that nobody can comprehend," the mournful tone was not lost on her, and she felt intimately sorry for him.

"How have I changed?" She queried, confused.

"Grown up. Changed. Not negatively, either, if it pleases you."

"Why do I need to be re-sorted?" She asked, crinkling her brow as it spoke back to her.

"Because times change."

The reply was blunt, but she did not bother to ask for further information, since the hat seemed to be avoiding the subject. "Very well," she said. "But where should I go?"

"Perhaps, Miss Granger, it is a choice that you yourself should make... you know the year, the people with whom you will be staying... it is your choice."

Hermione thought. Her initial answer was obvious; Gryffindor was where she belonged, was it not? She had belonged there for seven years and she had been happy. But then, the truth dawned on her, and she felt a pit form in her stomach. She could not well spend the next spell of time in the company of James Potter, Lily Evans, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew without harbouring a tremendous guilt in the knowledge that she had had the fortune to meet Harry's parents, whilst he had not.

"I can't be in Gryffindor." She thought sadly. "I couldn't live with myself."

So what then? Hufflepuff? She knew it was slightly wrong of her, but she couldn't imagine being within a house so widely disrespected throughout the rest of the school, especially when Ravenclaw housed so much wisdom and knowledge; surely that would be the best choice?

And yet... It seemed that there was an inept pull drawing her to the house of Slytherin, one she could not begin to fathom. She hated Slytherin and all that it stood for; she hated the segregation, the arrogance, the smarminess and the blatant disapproval of anything un-Slytherin. But then, there was the pull of the unknown, the slight fear and excitement that coursed through her at the knowledge she could discover things from a different end of the spectrum. Caught in the midst of a war in her own time, she wanted badly to find out what happened in the past that made so many young Slytherins become Death Eaters. Why did Snape turn? Why was Malfoy so very different in this time when he was so cruel and domineering in her own? Did they already know Voldemort, serve him from within the fortress of the Castle? She felt the side of her which had become so open, so prominent since meeting Harry and Ron, the side that yearned for adventure, sniffing at the air, wanting to know, needing that superior knowledge; maybe then, when she returned, she could find a way to end the war and save so many lives...

"Will Slytherin accept a Muggleborn?" She asked.

The hat seemed to chuckle in her ear. "What do you think?"

She smiled, "they aren't exactly on a need-to-know level, are they?"

This time, the hat really did seem to resonate laughter through her brain, making her head ache slightly as it did so. "You think as though you are one of them already Miss Granger. Good luck."


	2. Elmwood and Dragon Heartstring

**Clarification:**

**In this story, Lucius is the year above James/Lily etc. I don't actually know the real age difference, but that's what this goes by.**

**I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters**

**---**

She regretted her decision rather quickly. Having been lead to the dungeons by McGonagall, Hermione was introduced to a younger, even more rotund, Horace Slughorn, whom she had been taught by the previous year. He beamed at her, apparently not interested in her unexpected arrival, but more so in her own ability with a wand, and, more specifically potions. She was modest, and made no attempt to inform him that her wand was not actually on her person- Dumbledore had arranged for her to visit Diagon Alley the next day, and she was silently pleading to go to bed and not wake up until her escort came for her at half eleven the next day. Unfortunately, it was obvious that Slughorn intended to introduce her to the whole of the Slytherin House, and so she was forced under scrutiny by hundreds of glinting eyes, which made her feel rather as though she were going to be eaten alive.

"This is Miss Hermione Planger," Slughorn announced, and instantly Hermione sought out the gray eyes of Lucius Malfoy, who lay sprawled across a sofa with something akin to suspicion in his expression. She looked at him pleadingly, hoping he would meet her eyes and realize not to answer. He noticed her, his fine eyebrows creasing atop his forehead, but he gave her the slightest, barely perceptible nod, shifting his body ever so slightly away to look at the girl to his left. She breathed a sigh of relief; nobody should know her real second name, she reasoned, not when she would reappear in fifteen years as Harry Potter's best friend. Especially, she added to herself, when those in question were to grow up to be the opposition, and could easily decide to blow her head off the moment she walked into Hogwarts.

"I'm positive you'll be sure to make her feel comfortable," he inclined his overly large head towards the seventh years in particular, and Hermione rolled her eyes. As if any Slytherin would bother to look out for anyone but themselves.

-----

She was sat in her own private dormitory – it appeared that seventh year Slytherin's received the grander things in life, presumably in case people like Malfoy decided that the school was below their standards- reading a less up to date version of Hogwarts a History than she was used to, when there was a sharp knock on the door. Initially, it went ignored, her reason being that it was surely a Slytherin thing to do, rather than being polite and telling the visitor she was just not in the mood... But then it repeated twice, and, with a groan of frustration and annoyance, she threw the door open and snapped, "what?"

Lucius Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her. "Now there's no need for the mood, really, is there Planger?" He smirked, straightening up and leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially, "or should I call you Granger?"

She stared at him for a moment, then recomposed herself. "I'm not in a mood, Malfoy; I just don't want to waste my evening talking to a brainless dork." She went to slam the door, but he stopped it, just as he had done before, and said softly, "So you _don't_ mind if I tell people your real name? I'm sure it was just a mistake on Slughorns part that we all heard it was Planger so surely it wouldn't matter if..." he squawked suddenly as Hermione grabbed the V of his jumper and pulled him into the room, just as a blonde, plump girl with a pug-face turned the corner.

Having slammed the door, she rounded on him, feeling her blood boil as he stood there looking calm as anything, a smug smirk plastered across his lips as he looked at her.

"Careful Granger, they might get the wrong impression if they see you yanking me in her by my neck and slamming the door like some wanton mad-woman." She glared at him, biting back a retort, not daring to upset him in case he told someone her real name...

"So I'm assuming you _don't _want people to know?" His arrogance was sickly, it got under her skin and it made her cringe, but what more could she do than shake her head without arousing suspicion?

"Why?" His question was so abruptly cold, so harsh on her ears, she blinked. Despite being used to that icy tone in her own time, the boy he had been so far in this world was so different that there was no understanding how quickly he could change tact.

"I don't understand..." she said, feigning stupidity and knowing the instant her eyes met his that he didn't believe her.

"You're not retarded Granger! There must be a reason you've told me your name was Granger but everyone else believes you to be Planger... what is it?" His eyes had lost some of the happiness, the elation that she had seen in them the day before, and though it was barely perceptible, a mere shadow of what they would later inhabit, what she was so used to seeing, she felt herself shiver in fear.

"You must have heard me wrong!" Hermione voiced suddenly, struck by what she thought was a stroke of genius.

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Clearly you _are _retarded then! If I'd simply heard you wrong, you'd have spoken to me calmly and politely in the corridor, rather than drag me in here like you're some lust driven psycho with a bad hairdo!"

Hermione stared at him, momentarily aghast. Sure, her hair wasn't perfect, but it was nowhere near as bushy as it once was, and at least today there was no dust and debris cluttering it up.

"You know," she said, calming herself down slightly, "if you didn't clutter up your sentences with sexual references quite so often, maybe you'd find someone who actually _wanted _to drag you in by your neck. Though I suppose being a seventh year virgin must have its perks... I suppose it looks good when arranging marriages and suchlike doesn't it?"

His eyes glinted dangerously, and Hermione wondered if that retort had perhaps taken him too far. Would he run into the common room and advertise her name for all to hear? Merlin help her if he did!

"How very naive you are Granger," he said softly, stepping closer so that he was an arm's length away from her. "Nobody gets to seventh year as a virgin in Slytherin. We _like_ sex. And though I'm sure it's incomprehensible for a privately tutored little nerd like you, who shows up to take her N.E. having never even shown her face before, we know that Slytherin's are the _best_ people for sex." He looked at her assessing, up and down, then shrugged. "And though it pains me to say it, if you need..." he searched the air for the word, then smirked, turning his face back to hers and leaning even closer to whisper "deflowering," before returning to normal volume, "I'll be happy to assist you, so long as you don't mind me wearing a blindfold, because brunette boffins really don't do it for me!"

"I'm not a boffin," she replied calmly, "nor am I a virgin." And she wasn't! Sure, she only had limited experiences – a tumble under the Quidditch stands with Ron last year, and a drunken one night stand with Seamus Finnigan could hardly be classed as giving her great sexual prowess, but at least she'd had _something._ And besides, it was little or none of his business anyway; she would not be requiring his services.

He gave her another glance over, then flashed her a dark smirk, before swiftly replacing it with a solemn mask, his eyes narrowing and making her throat tighten as he surveyed her with scrutiny. "Why did he think your name was Planger?"

Hermione sighed. Evidently, he would not back down unless she told him the truth... so she did, at least in part.

"Because I told him that it was?"

"Why?" Lucius' arms were crossed over his chest, and the shirt he wore clearly accentuated well defined biceps, momentarily distracting her as she wondered if he was still that well defined under his robes in her own time. Dragging her thoughts away from his body, she met his eyes and spoke again.

"Because he doesn't need to know my real name." There was no irony in her voice, no trace of sarcasm, and he looked at her carefully for several moments.

"He doesn't _need_ to know?" He asked, disbelief on his face. "Do you not think he has some _vague_ idea of who you are?"

"No, I do not," she said, smiling.

Lucius narrowed his eyes again, and then sat himself on the end of her four-poster bed, leaning his back against a post casually. "I looked you up... Planger I mean..." he was curious, and it showed. His fingers were fidgeting, tapping restlessly on his arm. "You did your homework, didn't you?"

"How so?" She asked with false sweetness; she knew exactly what he meant, she just had no idea that he would figure it out.

"I looked at the old wizarding census for the name Planger... Rosetta Danga disappeared twenty years ago with her childhood sweetheart Andrew Planger, and they haven't been really noticed since; hermits, I believe would be the appropriate term. They haven't shown their faces at any public conventions, they didn't make it public when they married, and there's no real trace of them since about eighteen years ago, when they were said to be living in Sussex, talking of a family, but wanting to home-tutor, not send them to boarding school like Hogwarts..." He looked at her, daring her to challenge him. "Are you with me so far?"

She nodded, wondering how far he had looked into the lives of her fake-parents.

"But I don't see why you'd choose them as your fake parents; one was a muggle-born, one a half-blood, and neither was particularly bright or interesting. In fact, I can't imagine a worse pair of people to claim relation to. He was arrested for murder of a neighbouring town's vicar, and she's been twice convicted of performing magic in front of muggles. You're not stupid enough to want to be related to them, so I suppose the only reason you could want to call yourself by their name is so you have some timid link to this world, and have a name that's not too far gone from your own, so it's easy to remember." He stood up, striding towards her and bracing his arms on either side, face coming to within an inch of her own as he whispered venomously, "who are you, and how did you get here?"

Hermione gulped, and though fear was squeezing tightly at her stomach, it was not that which made her do so, but the closeness of his mouth, the hint of mint on his breath and the waft of his cologne in her nostrils. "I'm Hermione Granger..." she said honestly.

He brought himself closer to her, not enough to be touching her, but enough that she could feel the radiation of his body heat. "And how did you get here?" His teeth were gritted as he spoke in her ear, but he twisted his head to meet her eyes and whispered "legilimens," so quietly she could barely hear it. Only when she felt him nudging at her mind did she begin to throw up the barriers that she had built over the last months, attempting to push him away from her consciousness. He was stronger, breaking down her walls as though they were mere polystyrene blocks, and so she threw at him all those things that would tell him nothing but what she wanted him to know; buying her first wand; casting the first spell of her life; the terror of clambering on a broomstick for the first time; sitting in her childhood bedroom aged fifteen with all of her spell books surrounding her; and him, running towards her in the corridor with a gleeful smile on his face... He pulled out of her mind and glared at her with venom, because though he had seen proof that she was a witch, she had shown him nothing of Hogwarts, other than her initial sighting of he himself.

"How did you get here?" His voice was gravelly, as though he were about to burst in anger.

And rather than lie, she simply said, "I have no idea."

----

Lucius had left suddenly, pushing her aside and leaving the room in anger. She hoped that he would tell nobody, but understood that she had little control over that now. Her heart had pounded for hours after he'd left, blood pumping through her head at speed, and she had had a great deal of difficulty breathing. She was terrified and disorientated; she had no wand, her friends were not even born yet, and the man below all others that she would trust was the one person in the whole of the school besides Dumbledore and Hermione who knew who she really was.

---

Morning came, and she was glad to leap from her bed in the knowledge that she would be in Diagon Alley shortly, a wand clasped firmly in her hand, away from the worry of her own identity. She walked into the Great Hall only briefly, snatching a slice of toast from the rack before leaving again to walk around the grounds. She had briefly caught Lucius' eye as she entered, and he had looked at her with a mix of venom and curiosity that made her stomach churn in a not altogether unpleasant manner. She traced the same steps that she and Harry had taken in fourth year shortly before his first task in the Triwizard Tournament, and wished more than anything that he were taking this walk with her too. Along the lake was the familiar beech tree, under which she and Harry and Ron had spent many summer days, laughing, reading, revising, hurriedly writing the last paragraph of an overdue potions essay... she closed her eyes, wishing more than anything to be returned, counting to ten, and reopening them.

She could have cried.

A familiar mop of black hair, unruly and sticking up at the back, was making its way towards the beech tree, atop a lanky, quite skinny looking boy who walked backwards with several others. When he turned, she recognized the glasses, the shape of his face, the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth as he laughed, and she nearly called out to him, wanting to wave, to tell Harry that she was back... and then her eyes fell on the younger forms of Remus Lupin, –scrawny, a little pale to look at and with straw-like hair that fell across his eyes- Sirius Black, -handsome, more so than she was expecting, with a shock of black hair that achieved an elegance that her own would never achieve- and Peter Pettigrew, almost identical to the man she had met four years ago. She was instinctively moving towards them, not sure what force carried her, when she heard a silken voice which she recognized but despised all at once.

"Planger!" She stopped, and a moment later Lucius was stood in front of her with suspicion on his face. "They're Gryffindors," he informed her bitterly.

She looked at him blankly, as though she didn't understand. "And..?"

"And, we don't talk to them," he said gruffly. He reached out and grasped her elbow, steering her in the opposite direction. Hermione shrugged her arm away from him and he rolled his eyes. "Don't get all high and mighty about it," he snapped, "it's how things are, it's how things always have been and how they always will be." In an added undertone he muttered, "how in the hell did you get sorted into Slytherin anyway?"

She glared at him, and Lucius could have sworn there were daggers in her depths as she did so. "Perhaps I got sorted, not because I'm a bigoted arrogant pig, but because I'm actually ambitious and cunning?"

Lucius looked down on her, turning his whole body to look at her and grasping both elbows nearly painfully. "You're not fooling _me_ Granger. Everyone else might believe you're just a crafty Slytherin like everyone else, up to no good and playing the fool, but I'm not buying it, and if you're not careful, you'll end up in trouble for it."

She shrugged out of his hold and glanced at her watch. "Thrilling as this was," she said sardonically, "_I_ have to be somewhere. Goodbye." She turned towards the castle and began striding forward.

Lucius rolled his eyes up into his head. "How convenient for you..." he drawled. "Unfortunately, the somewhere _you've_ got to be is the somewhere that _I've _got to be, so how about we _both_ go to where _we_ need to be and be done with it?" He looked at the back of her head as she froze, turning to look at him with utter revulsion.

"There is no way that _I _am going anywhere with_ you_!"

Lucius didn't even bother to look taken aback, a smirk etching itself onto his face as though someone were chiselling his features slowly into the most wonderfully attractive, sickening look she could have possibly imagined. "What a shame, then, that I have your allowance from Dumbledore to pay for a wand and spell books..." He raised an eyebrow and motioned towards the gates. "Shall we?"

From the look on her face, he knew that there was little she would like less than to go to Diagon Alley with him, but she walked forwards, despite the suspicion clearly crinkling her pretty face. "Why am I going with you?" She asked.

He looked at her in amusement. "Because I'm Head Boy, and Dumbledore has left again, meaning that McGonagall can't leave. The other teachers have jobs to do and the Head Girl's in Hufflepuff, and even you, annoying as you are, don't deserve to be lumbered with Miss Goody-Goody MacMillan."

Hermione felt a faint blush stain her cheeks at that, but hid it behind a mask of impassiveness, retorting quite unnecessarily, "at least I might be able to have an intelligent conversation with her. It's more than I can hope to glean from you at any rate!"

Stopping, Lucius turned to her and said, quite softly, "look Granger, I don't know you, I can't say I like you, and I'm bloody certain the feelings mutual, but will you please, for the sake of my sanity, just let me be and _pretend_ to be civil for the day?"

Though she didn't really think he deserved it, she nodded; after all, the young man in front of her had not done anything on the same scale as the older man she had known. Perhaps, for her own sanity as much as his, it would be better to simply 'be civil' as he requested. "Alright," she said softly, "but only if you buy me lunch!"

He had just been readjusting the gleaming Head Boy badge on his chest, and at her words his hand slipped, stabbing his finger and causing him to release a torrent of expletives that she wasn't sure she had even heard before. "Lunch, Granger?" He asked, his eyes wide and face drawn.

"Well, since my breakfast was minimal, and I'm not the most agreeable person on an empty stomach, in the interests of civility I would say that taking me to lunch would be a good move on your part," she smirked, a smirk worthy of the man himself, and looked at him innocently.

"A good move on my part," he said, "and a chance for you to burn a hole in my wallet!" He paused, before reluctantly saying, "Fine. We'll go to lunch, but after that, I'm afraid _you'll _have to accommodate _me_!"

She retreated slightly at his words. "Accommodate you how exactly?" she queried shakily, and the sneer on his face was enough to make her instantly regret it. He closed the gap between them, placing his hands on her waist and leaning forward to whisper enticingly in her ear. "Whatever way I please..." he felt her shiver, amusing him greatly, before pulling away and laughing at the expression of worry on her face.

"Oh don't be such a prude," he insisted, "I'm only messing around Granger. Do you really think if I needed 'accommodating' I'd come to you? I've got half of Slytherin house more than willing to engage me, do you really think I'd require your services? Besides, inexperience just doesn't push my buttons."

Hermione felt the anger bubbling in her stomach, fuelling her retort as she snapped back at him, "just because I am not willing to prostitute myself like some common tart does not mean that I have no experience!"

He laughed, eyes dancing, and she realized that he had been teasing her the whole time. She huffed in anger, then began striding towards the exit to the Hogwarts grounds. Lucius caught up with her, holding out an expensive looking flask. She blinked in confusion, then shook her head. "No, thank you. It's far too early in the day to lower myself to such..."

"It's a portkey, Granger," he drawled. "Contrary to your own beliefs, I don't actually want to be seeing you pissed off your face. Dumbledore gave me special permission for this one- he even lowered the wards for us to get in and out easily- , so just put your hand on it and stop thinking the worst of me!"

"I'm not _thinking_ the worst of you!" She hissed. "I'm seeing it for myself thank you very much!" Not strictly true, Hermione told herself, since in contrast to what she knew he was being a perfect gentleman, but he didn't need to know that, did he?

"I thought we were going to be civil?" He said tiredly. When she didn't move or make any reply, he reached out, grabbed her hand and pressed it onto the flask in his other hand. She gasped as it began to glow blue, before feeling the tight squeeze that accompanied portkeys and apparition.

----

It wasn't like she remembered. The shops were different, the windows less colourful, the names less interesting and the people more conservatively dressed. Though she reasoned that she had only ever really visited at the height of tourism and shopping season for the younger generation of witches and wizards, it seemed that even the few young stragglers were dressed much less comfortably than she would have wanted. Though she had been provided with clothes that McGonagall had considered 'suitable' – a pair of drainpipe jeans and a black t-shirt-, she stood out like a sore thumb, unlike Lucius, who, she now realized, looked rather smart for a casual visit to Diagon Alley, wearing a black shirt and trousers, with a light jacket over one arm. Looking at him, she was struck immediately by an innate appreciation of his good looks, and a sudden wave of fear overtook him. She was in a strange time zone, with a man she barely knew anything of, except that he was to grow up to be a psychotic killer, who was slave to a man who would willing kill anyone in his way of power. She was terrified, but then there was a role of something else; excitement, intrigue, everything that she had found herself attracted to whilst travelling with Harry and Ron.

He flashed a dark grin at her as he noticed the look of perplexity on her face, and then he pointed mockingly towards a familiar, though slightly less shabby shop; Ollivanders.

----

The first time she had visited this shop, she had been amazed by the amount of boxes, the piles of wands one on top of the other, just waiting to be tried and tested by her... she had been rather disappointed, in honesty, when the third wand she had tried had been the one for her, and now, standing up and looking at the vastness of the room, she wondered if the same would be true. She was shocked out of her trance by Mr Ollivander appearing from behind a shelf, looking slightly younger than she remembered, but maintaining the same gentle expression which had put her at such ease in her first year.

"Mr Malfoy," he said, his eyes falling on Lucius before she herself, "surely you have not broken your wand?"

"Of course not," Lucius smirked, jerking his head in Hermione's direction. "This one needs a new one... she broke hers."

Ollivander looking at her, scrutinizing her to the point that she wanted to cover herself up with her hands. "Surely," he started, "you are too old to be purchasing your first wand, my dear?"

Hermione shook her head. "It's not my first... I misplaced mine."

"But I have never seen you here before, and I never forget a sale."

She shook her head. "I didn't buy it here. I bought it in Bulgaria when I was on holiday with my family... Gregorovitch, I think it was."

Ollivander raised an eyebrow, but nodded in agreement. "Yes... that would be true of Bulgaria... in which case, what type did you have?"

"Vine wood and dragon heartstring," she said reflexively, then swore inwardly, wondering if they would even use vine wood as wood yet, especially if she was claiming it to be Bulgarian... she could only hope, she reasoned, and when his showed no sense of suspicion, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ah yes, a good choice... hmmm..." he headed over to the nearest shelf, then pulled four different boxes off with the knowledge of a man who regularly organised his shelves. "Try this," he said, holding out a sleek black box. She removed the lid gently and nearly gasped at the similarity between this and her own wand. It was the same wood, the same length, with just a little extra thickness. She picked it up, and was almost disappointed to find that there was none of the initial goose bumps that she experienced when she had picked up her true wand. She waved it, briefly, speaking a half-hearted "wingardium leviosa", yet already knowing that it would not yield the same results as her own. The quill box on the desk shakily rose a centimetre above the wooden surface, then cluttered to the bottom. Ollivander snatched it back instantly, looking unreasonably insulted. "No," he said stiffly. "This is most definitely _not_ the wand for you!"

Hermione looked down at her feet, feeling Lucius' smirk on the back of her head and wanting to turn around and slap him in order to wipe it off his face. "Try this," Ollivander said, holding out another box, this one deep red in colour, containing a shorter, stumpier wand of a darker wood. The result was the same.

----

She stood there for the best part of two hours, waving wands and speaking incantations until her throat and arm ached. Two other customers came and went in the time between her entering and coming across the right wand for her.

It was presented to her in a deep green box, which was long and slim, and on opening it she found a plush silk cushion of silver, on which lay a dark, long wand which seemed to call to her like none of the others had, and more so even than her own first wand had achieved. She hardly dared to touch it, not wanting to be disappointed by the results. It called to her like nothing else; she could have sworn she recognized the wand itself, and yet she couldn't possibly have seen it before. Looking at Ollivander, she gulped, then gently took the handle in her trembling fingers, feeling it heat her from the inside as she lifted it from the box. With a devious smirk at Lucius, who had settled himself into a chair and looked utterly bored, she thought the incantation for her infamous canary charm, sending three yellow canaries swooping towards the dozing Slytherin. She shrieked in delight, just as Lucius leapt up, wand in hand, face of thunder, waving vehemently until the three birds disappeared.

"So you found one then? Finally! I was beginning to think you were a squib." His drawl was confident, but there was a slight edge to it and he kept his wand drawn.

Ollivander smiled at Hermione with more warmth than he had managed to muster for the rest of the meeting. "A good choice, if I may say so. Elmwood and dragon heartstring... it seems that dragons become you," he inclined his head politely and took the wand from her fingers, placing it back in its box and smiling gently. "That will be thirteen galleons, if I may."

-----


	3. With No Exceptions

**I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters**

**---**

The Leaky Cauldron was busy, full to bursting with lunching witches and wizards, and so Lucius steered her away from the old inn, towards Flourish and Blotts, where he found all of her spell books and piled them up in his arms without speaking to her. She was certain that the allowance with which Dumbledore had provided him was not enough to warrant first-hand editions, yet when she suggested as much, he rolled his eyes. "Since when do you know what Dumbledore does and doesn't do?"

And she didn't argue, because arguing would have been tantamount to saying that she did know Dumbledore, as well as the amount of money that was provided for children at the school with no income. So she let him pay at the counter, putting all of the books into a bag and carrying them for her, in a highly gentlemanly manner which unnerved her, until she realized that perhaps he was worried that, now she had a wand and had proved she could use it, he might be simply buttering her up to prevent her repeating the experience.

When they finally went for lunch, he found a table in a deserted corner, piling the bags up beside their chairs before flinging himself into his own, flicking a strand of platinum hair out of his eyes before nodding to the chair in front of him. "I'm not holding it out for you," he grinned, and Hermione decided that he was being his usual sarcastic self, simply because he was not alone with her nor out in the open any longer.

She slipped gracefully into her seat and picked up the menu, looking down the page to select the King Prawn Salad for starter, the steak and ale pie for main, a glass of champagne and, for pudding, a cookie cheesecake. He looked at her in amusement, before ordering the same starter, a sirloin steak with two sides of salad and chips, a firewhiskey, a pint of mead, and a chocolate fudge cake. She tried to hide the mild disappointment that she experienced on realising he was not going to rise to her bait, but then decided to simply enjoy the food, albeit that the starter had passed by in silence. Only when Lucius cut into his steak –medium rare, to Hermione's disgust when she saw the pinkish colour of the meat- did he break the silence.

"You don't trust me, do you Granger?"

And though he said it as a question, she knew that he already knew full well that the answer was no. She said nothing, looking at her plate and picking half heartedly at the pie, feeling her appetite drain as he looked at her.

"Pardon my asking, but I think I'm within my rights to know why?" His voice was surprisingly soft, and she looked up to meet his grey eyes – almost silver, now that she really looked at them- with a small quirk of her lip.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

He snorted, "That _is_ true. You don't have a record of being the most truthful person I've ever met... but if I don't believe you, then you'll have nothing to lose in telling me, right?"

Hermione realized, at that moment, just why the man before her grew up to be so very influential; whilst his money was sure to play a part, he had an uncanny ability of twisting things to his own advantage and personal point of view, and as she averted her eyes she wondered why he hadn't become something more honourable than a Death Eater- he could have made Minister For Magic; with a voice and face and influence like that nobody would question it.

"You really... it's better that it remains... secret."

He clenched his jaw briefly, then replied. "I don't really like secrets."

"That's not true," she replied without thought. He frowned.

"And how would you, of all people, claim to know that?"

Hermione sighed, taking a mouthful of pie and hoping he would change the subject. When he didn't, just continuing to look at her with great expectancy, she sighed, swallowing her food and resting her fork on the plate. "Why do you need to know so much?" She asked, knowing that there was hypocrisy to her question that Harry and Ron would have scolded her for.

"Because you intrigue me," he said honestly. "And because it's been a long time since I've been this intrigued about any one thing or person, and I'm interested."

She raised an eyebrow, and Lucius knew that that argument would not suffice. "And because," he voiced, his volume falling considerably so that she had to lean slightly closer in order to hear him properly, "I don't like to think of someone disliking me when I have no clear knowledge of what I have done to them." He raised an eyebrow to match her own and she smiled despite herself. "Will you tell me?" He asked gently.

"I really shouldn't," she replied, voice soft and timid. "It could change so many things... I have no idea how things are meant to be..."

"That's the beauty of life, isn't it?" Lucius asked, a grin spreading across his lips. "Nobody should have the knowledge to know how things turn out; it's unnatural. We live by our own causes and we hope they're the right ones for the future we want..." He waited a few moments before whispering, "Tell me, Hermione."

And the use of her first name shocked her. She looked at him so fast that her neck cricked and she groaned in pain. He couldn't stifle the laugh that left his mouth, and it was such a happy sound she was surprised it came from him at all. "You don't understand," she said softly, "if I told you, so much could change... things could go wrong..."

"Like what?" he asked. "Like, people dying, wrong?"

She looked at him for several seconds, watching his brow crinkle briefly, and then his eyes widen. "Are you for real?"

She nodded her head, but then, a small, nagging part of her brain interrupted, and she wondered... She had been told in third year that letting anyone see her a few hours in the past could change the course of the future for the worse, and yet, looking at Lucius now, with his eyes so untainted and full of life, she wondered if, in telling him, she could change the course of the future for the better. What if she warned this young, would-be Death Eater of the path he wrought for himself? What if she told him of the murders and crimes he would commit in the future, and let him make the choice as to whether or not to continue on as he was destined to... and then she reasoned, that in her own time, this meeting was twenty two years in the past; she had already had this meeting, and she reasoned that whatever the outcome, it was the right one, surely?

And then she scolded herself mentally, for of course, that could not be right. The fact of the matter was, she had the choice as to making this man's life more humane, and whether it was wrong or not in the matters of time and magic, she didn't care, because deep down, she knew that when it came to it, there was no debate; she could save countless lives, including Lucius' himself, if she just told him the truth... and in that second, her decision was made, and whether it was the right one or not, she would not know.

"I've met you before," she said softly. "A few times, in fact.... only... you're not the same now... not the way I remember you at all in fact."

He watched her intently, pushing his plate aside to listen. "When? I don't remember you."

She breathed deeply, and then said, almost imperceptibly, "We haven't met yet."

He blinked. "What?" His face was that of a confused man and she didn't blame him. She sounded as though she was an escaped patient from Saint Mungo's, and sure enough, he frowned and asked. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine!" She snapped. "Look, the thing is... I don't belong here... I'm not... I'm sort of..."

"Crazy?" He supplied, and she smiled but shook her head.

"No, I'm not crazy, unfortunately."

"How can we not have met? I'm sat with you already! That's pretty evidential of the two of us being acquaintances, and so there is no way we can't have met!" It clearly bothered him, and Hermione saw, for the first time, Lucius Malfoy in a state, and found it to be incredibly humanising for him.

"Because..." she looked at him and said softly, "you might want another drink, actually..." And he took a deep swig of mead before looking at her.

"You're confusing me Granger, and I don't like it. Explain, because I don't understand any of this, and I want to know why you seem to despise me quite as much as you do. I admit I'm not the most openly friendly person, but I haven't really done anything to merit you constantly giving me the cold shoulder, and trying to evade me when I attempt to talk." He took another swig and looked expectantly at her, taking in the caramel eyes, the soft curls in her hair, and feeling an odd pull at his stomach.

"I'll tell you," she said softly, "but it's... it's important that you realize that it doesn't have to come true... you might not be... it could be better." She breathed in deeply for a few moments, then began to tell him everything.

----

"I met you when I was twelve. You were about thirty-four, I'd imagine, and... Things were hostile between us because of certain... differences that you deemed unforgiveable. I was with a family of people you'd never gotten on with, and I suppose that in that respect, you classed me as bad as them anyway. But there were other things too, and you... you took an instant dislike to me, and in return, I did the same to you."

Lucius looked pale and sweaty, and he croaked, "thirty-four?" in a harsh, throaty voice that grated on her ears and completely contrasted with his usual silken tones. She nodded, allowing him time for the information to sink in. "So... when you say you don't belong here... you mean you're from... from the future?" She nodded again, running her finger around the rim of her empty glass. "And, I didn't like you?" He sounded genuinely confused, and she wondered how much information he could take in at once.

Another nod, and then she said quietly, "you deemed me unworthy of... of witchcraft." She felt tears burning at her eyes and tried desperately to blink them away. He noticed, looking suddenly uncomfortable, but inquisitive at the same time.

"Why would I do that?" Lucius whispered. "You're clearly worthy... admittedly I haven't met you when you were twelve, but... why would I say something like that?" There was something scared in his eyes, and she wondered if perhaps she would have done better to simply go on believing she didn't like him for no reason.

"Think," she said eventually, "of what you would consider the lowest form of witch or wizard..."

"A squib?" he said instantly, then frowned. "But you're clearly not a squib... you can do magic and you..." he stopped, looked at her, then at the table in front of him, then back at her, with recognition dawning in her eyes. "You're not... are you?"

"Yes," she said, "I'm a Mudblood."

---

Silence stretched between them for many minutes, and then he let out the breath of air he seemed to have been holding in. "But... you're in Slytherin!" his voice was indignant, and Hermione nodded with glumness.

"Yes... but only because I chose to be... I'm.... I'm not supposed to be in Slytherin."

"Are you a Hufflepuff?" He said, clearly attempting to bring some humour back into the conversation.

She did laugh, shaking her head. "No... I'm a Gryffindor."

She saw a flash of something on his face; disappointment, perhaps? But it was gone before she could really note it in detail. "I see." He said quietly. "Right..." Another few minutes of silence passed before he quietly said. "You're having me on, aren't you?"

She shook her head again, cheeks red in embarrassment as he scrutinized her completely. "No. I'm not at all. I'm not of wizarding blood... I just got lucky."

He eyed her, then closed his eyes briefly and counted to ten, and she could see his lips forming the words and hear a slight release of breath every second. When he opened them again, he looked confused and disappointed, and she didn't know why.

"Why do you hate Mudbloods so much?" she asked softly. "I could never understand it, at all, from anyone. I still don't..."

He looked at her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he did so before leaning forward and clasping his hands together until his nails drew blood. He was hunched over and looked to be nervous and shifty, as though he had something to be afraid of. "I'm Pureblood." He said softly.

"I know that," she quipped back. He managed a weak smile.

"I should have known that you would..." with another deep breath, Lucius went on. "I've grown up on stories of Muggles and Mudbloods," he said quietly. "I've heard how you come in our sleep and steal our wands so that you can claim entrance to our world, and how you all become so studious so that you can overthrow us..."

"We don't steal wands." She said quietly. "And even if that were true, I'd say that the fact I just spent two hours trying to find a wand that would work for me would be evidence enough to say that it wasn't exactly an easy thing to achieve in claiming a wand that would actually make us look even remotely magical in this world."

Lucius' eyes darkened. "My family's spent years, generations even, keeping the bloodline pure, because Muggles corrupt it. They make us seem inferior and can claim rights that no person of the pure blood can."

"Such as what?" Hermione snapped, wondering instantly if she would live to regret it.

"Such as..." Lucius said softly, "such as..." he seemed lost for words, and he slammed a fist angrily down on the table. "It doesn't matter what! You all lie and cheat and steal to get to a place that you will never belong in because it wasn't made for you, not in the same way it was made for us!"

"Where do you think the first wizard came from, Lucius?" Hermione said softly. "Do you think they just popped out of the ground like a bloody plant and started waving a stick around and turning people into animals? They were probably a Muggle to begin with, and just happened to possess a power. Just because they found another person with the same powers to go and shag and make babies with doesn't mean that they were any less of a Muggle than I am."

"Well, if you didn't _steal_ your powers," he sneered, clearly insinuating that she had, "how did you get them?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I was in my bedroom one morning, playing with my toys, and then one of them came to life and began moving in front of me. That was when I was about five. After that I could make them move when I wanted them to... and when I turned eleven, I got my Hogwarts letter, asking me to come the next September. I don't know how, or why, and I don't suppose anybody does. But I didn't steal anything, and I won't listen to you suggesting as much."

He looked at her for a few moments, then stood up abruptly and headed over to the bar, where she saw him order two firewhiskeys in a row, which he downed with speed, then he returned with ale and a glass of wine, which he shoved across at her unceremoniously before plonking himself back down. "My mother was killed by a Mudblood." His voice cracked, but there was no mistaking the sincerity of his words. Hermione could only stare, trying to make sense of what he said.

"Your... your mother was killed?"

He nodded. "She trusted him. He was her replacement for my father while he was away on business in my youth... And though I suppose it serves her right for being so unfaithful, he had no right to kill her. He was a filth ridden piece of vermin and my father made sure he was dealt with in the same way." The darkness in his eyes was terrifying, and the usual handsome set of his jaw was menacing and chilling to the eye. Hermione felt tears in her eyes as she began to understand some of the Malfoy family's detest for Muggleborns.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "But not all of us are like that."

He rounded on her with anger burning in his eyes. "You don't get it do you? He stole her wand! He stole it, and he killed her with it! Do you have any idea what it's like, to hear your mothers screams while you're locked in your room, four years old and unable to get out? Can you even begin to comprehend what seeing another one of his filth-ridden brethren sat in front of me makes me feel? It's repulsive! Have you ever had to listen to something like that? Listened to someone you loved being tortured repeatedly, simply because they had something some swine couldn't have? He was a good-for-nothing pile of shit and anyone that has that sort of blood running through their veins is filth to me!"

Hermione's eyes were burning, and she blinked ferociously, before meeting his eyes and saying softly. "I've never had to listen. I've been tortured for something I was, just because people like you –and when I say _like_ you, I mean your friends and family, and you yourself- couldn't get their own way. You act like spoilt brats and you have no sense of anything but your own self-importance!"

He looked at her in a mixture of rage and horror, and she wasn't sure which unnerved her more. She wanted to talk, but at the same time she was terrified he would turn his wand on her and she would be sent to an early grave. Then suddenly, his whole body sagged in his chair, as though the support of his bones had simply disappeared, and he looked a more broken man than she had ever seen. "I wouldn't..." he said softly. "I couldn't..." his eyes were filled with pain, and she couldn't help but feel a desperate inner need to reach over and touch his cheek. She didn't do so, but she looked at him with heartfelt sympathy.

"You didn't... not as such... it wasn't you torturing me..." she looked at her hands, only to see them shaking. "But you did... not to me... but to... a friend..."

"But... I don't understand why I would... to anyone... I couldn't... it wouldn't happen. Nobody could convince me to do that!" And his eyes and expression were so sincere that, if she hadn't heard and seen evidence to contradict it, she would have easily believed him.

"You... this was a bad idea... I shouldn't have told you any of this... I was stupid... It was a bad idea... I can't let you remember it... I'm sorry, you're just..."

"Tell me." Lucius demanded. "I need to know. I won't let it happen. I can't let it happen."

"You have to," she said softly.

"DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT I HAVE TO DO!" He roared, and suddenly he was every bit the man she knew. Her heart pounded and her body shook as she recoiled from him. The few people remaining in the Inn looked their way, but Lucius ignored them, striding around the table and gripping her chin in a vicelike grip. "If you think I'm going to let a Mudblood dictate my life you have another thing coming!"

She met his cold glare evenly, with one equally as cold and level, saying softly, but with great intent, "you don't need me to dictate it for you. You're enough of a maniac to dictate it for yourself."

His hand fell away, his jaw gritted as his face seemed to drain of what little colour he had. He looked to be bordering on sickness, and she looked at him worriedly despite herself. "Don't look at me Mudblood!" he hissed.

Hermione felt hot tears begin to trickle down her face, leaving dark tracks as it dragged her mascara away from her eyes and towards her chin. "You haven't changed," she whispered softly, tears burning. "You're still as cowardly and evil, and everything I was beginning to think you weren't." She got up and left, negating to pick up her bags and running out of the front entrance, right into the heart of Muggle London.

----

It was different; the buildings were older, the fashion was shocking and the looks she received were embarrassing as anything, but she didn't care, and submersed herself instantly in the mundane world that was Muggle London itself. She heard a woman talking to her friend about putting a red sock with the whites and turning her white negligee a dulled down pink that her husband disliked; she heard a man complaining to his wife that he had left his cigarette lighter at home, while she admonished him for being so careless and expecting her to carry around a spare at all times. It was so different to the wizarding world; if she turned around, ten metres away she would hear people discussing potions, Quidditch matches, Goblin Wars and Chocolate Frogs. It worried her how tame the Muggle world had become for her, and yet it was her home. Was Lucius right? Had she somehow come into contact with a wizard or witch and stolen their powers in her youth? She shook her head, admonishing the thought. She was born to be a witch, whether or not the pureblood fanatics agreed with her on the matter.

She walked for half an hour, immersing herself in the streets of London, walking past toy shops, art galleries, an abandoned warehouse, a funeral parlour... Everything rushed by and she took in everything and nothing at the same time. She could understand him being angry, she could even understand, to some degree, the way he'd made a misguided assumption based on personal experience, but she simply couldn't understand how he could accuse her of stealing her powers, accuse every muggleborn witch or wizard of theft when there was no proof at all to suggest that was so, except for the fact that they weren't 'worthy' of it by birth. She thought up countless arguments now that she was alone; you weren't born with the right to be famous, you simply happened across a chance and you took it. You didn't have to be born into the Royal family; you could marry and be considered Royal without any question of it. It angered her that he had proved her right, proved that he was as cold and bitter as he ever had been. It angered her that she had been foolish enough to believe otherwise, and that she had wasted time in Slytherin, when from now on it was bound to be miserable and her secret would be out in no time. And this, she reasoned, was why she was told not to meddle with time when she used her time turner back in third year; there was no control, and she had no idea whether, in a few moments, she might simply disappear because something she had said had changed the course of life and she wasn't even going to be born... Fresh tears fell and she didn't bother to try and hide them, for nobody knew her, nor would they remember her. She sobbed, continuing to walk, feet moving habitually, taking random turns at any opportunity, trying to lose herself in the complexity of the past. She was walking, on and on, with no idea where she was any longer, but not caring, as long as she could escape, and then...

"Hermione!" She heard, and her stomach sank. His voice was slightly dry, though it had regained some of its silkiness. She didn't bother to turn around, but kept walking, picking up speed to try and lose him. Unfortunately for her, she had never really exercised, and her fitness was questionable, but when being pursued by a well-built, toned, regularly exercising male, it was hopeless to believe she would get away. She managed to stay ahead for a few minutes, but he was closing in on her all the time, and very soon he was an arms length away and had reached out a hand to grab her wrist. When she tried to jerk it away, he held it firmly and twisted her around to face him.

---

The cut on her cheek, which had scabbed over and been covered with makeup before they left Hogwarts, was clearly visible, the thin red line stark in its contrast to the pallor of her skin. Black lines had traced down to her chin and her eyes were slightly puffy and red. She was sniffing and crying, and despite the run of her makeup and the sight of the cut against her skin, he didn't think he had ever seen anyone so beautiful.

Lucius brought one hand up to cup her cheek, his movement tentative as he waited for her to pull away. He felt her tense as the tendons in her wrist contracted beneath his fingers, and he stroked a flyaway strand of hair away from her face. "I'm sorry." He whispered.

When Hermione didn't reply, he let go of her wrist, bringing his other hand up to join the first, cupping her face between them. The irrelevance of the thought surprised her, but Hermione couldn't help but notice how large they were, how masculine and strong, yet still graceful. His fingers teased against the skin of her temple as he traced them gently up and down over a space of only a few centimetres. Her sniffling died down slightly, and her breathing calmed so that she simply stood there before him, arms at her sides, looking completely helpless. He continued his gentle caresses until she drew in a shuddering breath, after which he spoke quietly. "You're not a Mudblood." He whispered.

"I am," she whispered in reply.

"No..." he closed his eyes briefly, then met hers again and spoke softly, "you're muggleborn. And that's not a bad thing." He moved closer to her, lowering his forehead so that it rested against hers, feeling her slightly hitched breath on his face, closing his eyes to the vanilla scent that wafted into his nostrils and filled his entire system. She was trembling in his arms, and it reminded her vividly of the moment in which she had been thrown to meet him, and she was both terrified and comfortable at the same time. His arms were not wrapped around her back, holding her in place like a prisoner, but instead they consoled her, tenderly caressing her hips until she was no longer a jibbering wreck.

"Hermione?" he whispered tentatively.

"Yes..."

He took a deep breath, shuddering slightly before speaking again. "Please... make me forget. I can't... I don't want to remember this. I don't want to live differently because of what you've said..."

He felt her frown, heard her question of 'why?' and replied softly, "Because I don't want to stop you coming here."

She managed a shaken smile, "you won't... I'll come... I've already come..."

"But what if I change things?" he whispered. "I can't do it Hermione, I can't... not while knowing I'll never meet you..."

"I won't let you forget."

"Then make sure I don't lose you," he implored. He stopped, closed his eyes briefly then said, "I mean... make sure that I can still meet you..."

She nodded, and he swore quietly as her skull knocked his. They looked at each other, then laughed as he nursed his bruised forehead.

----

They returned to Hogwarts too late for dinner, having taken their time re-entering the Leaky Cauldron to collect her school books, then using the portkey to return to the school. They landed just beside the lake, and Lucius, rather than lead the way up to the castle, placed the bags on the floor and sat facing the water, which reflected the sunset in its surface. For several moments, he stared at it, then looked to the side, smiling at her briefly before patting the grass beside him. Hermione joined him, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her cheek on them as she looked at him. His platinum hair blew lightly in the breeze, his grey eyes reflecting just a hint of the orange sky, while the lines of his face seemed more relaxed than they had been all day.

"I still can't believe it," he murmured softly. "You're not... you're nothing like I'd have imagined. I mean... I wanted to hate you, when you told me... but I didn't... it doesn't make sense anymore. I thought all Mud- sorry, Muggleborns, would be the same... but you're not and it's..." he frowned. "It's strange."

She only nodded, looking away to the gentle ripples of the dark mass that was the lake.

"Hermione," he said softly, "where you know me from... do you hate me?"

She stiffened, feeling a shiver go down her spine that had nothing to do with being cold. "I... I don't really know you," she said, and in truth, she didn't, and so it was not too much of a lie... but he sighed and rested his head in his hands.

"Yes then..." His voice was full of distress, and she felt sympathy tugging at his heartstrings.

"No," she said, moving ever so slightly closer and placing a hand gingerly on his arm. "I don't hate you... I hate some of the things that you've done, and I hate some of the things you've said, but I don't know the real you... I don't know anything of the man you really are... I don't know how you feel about people, or why you believe the things you do... and yes, if the fact I disagree with some of the things you believe in amounts to hating you, then I do, but I haven't ever... we've never spoken. Not properly. It was always... one-sided..." She fell away, feeling as surge of pain. She had never really considered the fact that her hate towards him was based only on opinion. Yes he was spiteful towards her, but then, so were Harry and Ron initially, and now they were her very best friends...

"So I was... cruel. Is that correct?"

Hermione blinked. "Yes." She replied, reasoning that there was no point in lying when he evidently knew the outcome. She closed her eyes very briefly, but when she reopened them, his face was only inches from hers and his hand was reaching out to caress her hair.

"But in being cruel to you... I brought you here... is that correct?"

"Stop asking me if it's correct," she smiled briefly, but nodded, "I think that has something to do with it, yes."

His eyes locked on hers and she felt herself melting in his gaze. "In which case... can you forgive me, for being so cruel to you in my future, so that I know you'll be here?"

Hermione frowned. "But if you don't mean it, it might not work..."

"Trust me Hermione," he whispered, "at this specific moment in time, I have the single, select intention of being as cruel to you as possible, until the night I find you looking as you did the other morning, when I'll tell you exactly what happened... why I am the way I am..." His voice was quaking. "Is that... do you... would that be alright?"

Hermione reached her hand up to cover his own. "Why do you want to?" She asked softly. "What makes you want to meet me that badly?"

Lucius edged even closer to her, his breath hitching slightly as he whispered to her, "because Granger," he murmured, "if I don't meet you, I fear I'll end up as the man you've described, but for real, with no remorse, no guilt... I'll do whatever it takes to meet you Hermione... but I promise, once you return from this time, assuming you return to my arms... I promise I'll give it all up... for you."

"Selfish as it will later reveal itself to be, I want that, too." Her voice broke and cracked, but he seemed to take confidence from her words. Her fingers traced the cool skin of his wrist, soothing him greatly. "Do you really mean _anything_?" She asked.

Lucius nodded. "Anything. With no exceptions. Whatever it takes to ensure my meeting with you, Hermione." He moved to close the gap between their mouths, his lips briefly brushing against the softness of her own, before they both jumped apart, startled, at the sound of a soft, yet somehow cold voice.

"Lucius, there you are," the feminine drawl sent uncomfortable shivers down Hermione's spine, and she looked around to see the familiar blonde hair of Narcissa Malfoy, held neatly in place by an emerald green headband. She was as beautiful as Hermione had ever known her to be, and she carried herself in a way that said she knew as much. She was tall, with long, slim-toned legs that stretched out before her as she approached. She looked at Hermione with distaste, but disregarded her as her own gaze fell on Lucius. "I thought you were going to meet me for dinner? Thankfully for you, Zabini was kind enough to escort me, or you might well have been witnessing a much less calm demeanour." She smirked and held out her hand insolently. "Come along now, I don't have time to be waiting on newbies when I could well be devouring _you_!"

Lucius glanced sideways at Hermione, a question lingering behind his eyes. She simply nodded her head, flashing him a false smile. He sent her an apologetic frown, briefly squeezing her hand before gracefully rising to his feet. Hermione sighed as he took Narcissa's hand and walked with her back to the castle. With a brief wave of her wand, shrinking the bags down to a more manageable size and sticking them in her pockets, she followed slowly, feeling her legs quake with a mixture of amazement and sickness. What if Lucius took 'anything it takes' too far?


End file.
